Red Carnations
by historicallylate
Summary: Impulsively, Andy does something romantic. Will Sharon appreciate the gesture? Pure Sharon/Andy fluff without plot. Stand-alone.
1. Part 1

**A/N:** _This is standalone story, crafted from overflow "Perfect Officers" material I finished for a challenge (yeah, I'm lazy). Can totally be read without "Perfect Officers", but if you want to know where this came from, see ch23. I know I said no more fanfics, but can't resist posting stuff if it's already done. :) _

_Stand-alone, basically one-shot posted in six snippets. Established Sharon/Andy, fluff, rating strong T. First draft material (sorry! Beta wouldn't go amiss!). Please put your dentist on speed dial._

* * *

**Red Carnations**  
_Part 1/6_

'Flynn men hate grocery shopping', was some sort of a maxim he believed his grandmother had coined. To this day he had been somewhat ambivalent on the veracity of the statement — hate was such a strong word — but judging by the past ninety minutes he was rapidly leaning on the side of agreement.

The lines at the store had been endless, he had forgotten things four times and on the third trip back he had ran into an old school friend who had grown up to be an asshole; a too-wealthy, too retired, too tanned asshole with a too much of a trophy wife. For some reason it had annoyed the living hell out of him. Or should 'it' be 'she'? No matter. Not his woman. As long as the universe didn't hate him too much, he'd go another twenty years without seeing the asshole. Hoping he would see him before her was enough.

The simple task of shopping was made all the more difficult by the fact that his list was not written by him nor was he fully comfortable with all the things listed. How did you know if the brown edges on a carambola were too brown? He should rethink his willingness to volunteer for mundane tasks. Especially when the events conspired to make him late and annoyed on the get-go. Not even the small thoroughly sweet sidebar messages on the list eased the franticness.

When finally all of the things were gathered together, it had started raining and he, the great mastermind that he was, he had everything in paper bags. And his car was parked on the outskirts of the lot. No problem, except for the said rain and the unfortunate happenstance that it was the first day of wearing the new leather shoes. Like today the universe wasn't hating him enough already.

The only redemption to his day was the knowledge of what was waiting for him at the end of all his hard work. The temptation to cross out the roundabout ways of thinking that and just go on calling it 'getting home' was great, but he knew there still was a line between theirs, his and hers. A line that was getting thinner, a fact he happened to appreciate very much, but still a line.

To think that his male brain was willing to erase lines like that at his age made him almost startle every now and again. It was all her doing and he was not ashamed to place the blame on her court. How much she was not like the other women he dated, he couldn't stop marvelling. They didn't care if he had a past, still they must have known it; she knew he had a past and yet, still she cared. That was the way things were supposed to be.

These days, he had a good life. Good job, good enough health, better relations with his family, the best woman. And he was lucky enough to have friends. Even she was a friend and that was a difference to his other women too. He liked to think she still would have been had he not gotten the message. Luckily, he had.

That too was thanks to a friend, on whom he would never inflict the pain of knowing what he had now was all because some careless words the friend in question had said. Before that, those smiles of hers he thought were just smiles had not made much sense. Nor had those minute narrowings of her eyes or pursings of her lips which, now he knew, had acknowledged tiny rejections from his part. The one curt 'I see' had not been just her being a bitch despite her later, quite firm, denials to the opposite. The inability to admit he knew her was one of her most endearing qualities, and further, one of which he liked to tease out constantly.

Standing at the stoplight, he hazarded a glance to the skies. Dark blue with patches of black. He hated it, but she would love it, so he should be grateful. He would bet anything she had the doors to the balcony open, just listening and breathing in the scent. Perhaps she would be sitting in a chair next to the windows with a glass of wine in hand, bare feet curled next to her, pretending to read a book. Then again, maybe she was in the kitchen with a half-eaten apple forgotten in one hand, leaning on the counter, her feet in comfy boots, glazed eyes directed at the horizon.

Soon he would know; his day was only going to get better. If only the rain would last.


	2. Part 2

**Red Carnations**  
_Part 2/6_

The click of the door inserted a new note in the steady rattle of the rain. She loved the rain so much it was almost a disruption, but knowing who was at the door, she couldn't be too disappointed.

"In here...," she called out, her voice trailing off completely before she added, "Kitchen."

Her distracted excuse for a hello elicited a smirk from him as he rounded the corner. His smirk got wider at the domestic tableau in front of him: things scattered on the kitchen bench, her in a cotton shirt and the soft cardigan he really liked the feel of, leaning totally focused over a magazine with a half-eaten apple resting next to her right hand. The air of domesticity in her was only emphasized when he finished the study by following the lines of jeans down to her bare feet, one set of toes gently rolling against the floor.

"I'll be with you... in a second," she let out in a far-away voice as he entered and started unpacking the groceries.

Chuckling silently he proceeded with unpacking. Any attempts at doing it quietly and considerately would have been unwarranted, he knew, thus he used no energy in hiding the rustling of bags and slams of cabinets. The way she sometimes completely forgot there were other people around was something he had learned to appreciate in their relationship. It was endearing, it was a small gift: a small everyday tell of the comfortableness they shared.

As the bags got empty and she still hadn't looked up, the article started to pique his interest as well. Coming to stand an inch behind her back and leaning over her shoulder, he placed his left palm on her hip. The resulting little start she made warranted a laugh from him. Disappointingly, though, the article didn't open on his quick glance which was all he cared to bid at it. That was the case even after she made to slightly lean to the right in order to offer him a better view of the text.

Pulling the enticing strands of hair away and over her right shoulder, placing his jaw on her left, he rumbled in her ear, "Don't bother on my account."

She relaxed back into reading and he could almost pinpoint the moment she forgot he was nuzzling her neck, let alone that he actually existed. The amusement at her total disregard for the outside world and the cry of his battered ego wanting more attention from her led to some half-hearted attempts at keeping her engaged.

"Good reading?" he asked settling both of his hands on her hips to complete the symmetry of the shared warmth.

A simple hum was all the answer she could manage.

The breath of his next question ruffled her hair, but she took no notice.

"Where you at?"

Languidly her finger came to rest at the third to last paragraph. The article was obviously more enticing than him, Andy concluded with mirth. No matter, he could amuse himself, breathing in her scent, rubbing her sides, silently laughing at her barely conscious responses.

"Right," she said not half a minute later, pulling her weight on both legs and turning around between his palms with a smile. "Hi," she breathed rubbing her hands on his shoulders.

"Hello, Miss Bookworm," he replied with a similar demeanour. Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as she went to give him his reward: a scoff, followed by a roll of her eyes. He would have liked to have been more offended than he was amused. "What? You have a hot-blooded male here and you rather read."

"Maybe my reading was hotter?" she suggested with mischief.

He pushed closer and went to read over her shoulder, "'It was argued that the cognitive frame applied to conflict might affect a police supervisor's understanding and judgement...' Yeah, sizzling. Literary porn that." Facing her again, it was hard to ignore her wide and glazed eyes over his right shoulder, so he didn't bother, only bent at the knees an inch to better intercept her line of sight. "Sharon?"

She nodded past his right arm. "What is that?"

Letting go of her left hip, he glanced behind his back. "What is what?"

The pointing of her finger was practically frantic and the scowl she sported added some emphasis. "That!"

Her impatience was always adorable to him, but this time the mushy feelings were bested by sincere confusion. Turning around again, he studied the worktop that held the remains of his unpacking and some of the things they would need for dinner in a minute. The last item next to the stove finally caught his attention and quirked his lips.

"Oh yeah," he conceded stepping to the counter. "For you," he told her with a grin and held out a bunch of flowers.

Her cool eyes watched him, stared at his outreached hand. Not a muscle moved in her, not a breath escaped. A stare was too light a description, being still an understatement. At certain points of his life he had been accused of doing inconsiderate things to women, not always falsely, and the eerie calmness about her made him think this might be one of those moments. How or why, he wasn't entirely sure. So much for making his day better — thanks a lot patron saints of rain for a job not well done — if that was the case.

"Sharon, usually the response is to take a hold and say 'thank you'," he tried prompting her out of her stupor.

It had no effect.

"You — You bought me flowers?" She glanced from the bouquet to him. "Why?"

In all honesty, he had expected a smile, maybe a peck on the cheek or even her jumping on her toes to lace her fingers in the short hairs in his neck if she was in one of her playful moods. This, this was just confusing.

"What do you mean 'why'? Do I have to have a reason?"

"Yes."

The curt answer made it sound like an undeniable fact. Yes, he was wrong, had been all his life.

Still he tried his reasoning on her, "Men buy women flowers just because."

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do. At least I do." Seeing her eyeing the flowers suspiciously, he had to ask, "Sharon, is this a thing?"

She kept squinting at the flowers, but something made her decide reacting was not completely out of the realm of possibilities.

"No, it's fine. Thank you."

He looked at her sniffing the flowers. Her lashes couldn't totally mask the quick flitting of her eyes in his direction. It looked to him like she was carefully gauging which one was more dangerous, him or the flowers. Knowing he was not dangerous to her, and seriously doubting some flowers could hurt her either, he was at a loss.

"Alright, yes it is," she resigned with a feeble effort at a calming smile, "Don't worry. You'll just have to buy me more so I'll get used to it."

The suspicion still didn't abandon her eyes, even when she went to search for a vase.

* * *

**A/N: **_Sharon's reading: International Journal of Police Science & Management, vol 16 #2, D. Corcoran: 'How useful is a problem-solving approach to police station conflict management: keeping the peace among police officers'_


	3. Part 3

**Red Carnations**  
_Part 3/6_

He had bought her flowers. Without asking, without her asking, without it being an occasion for something. Unless he was marking occasions she didn't even know about? Oh no, had she forgotten an anniversary she should know about? Not her birthday, not his, not one of the kids'. Not their first date, not their first time together, not the date of 'I love you's. First time they met? Worked together? Promotion? None of hers for sure and why would he buy her flowers for one of his?

No, if it was an anniversary of some kind, she didn't remember the event. Wasn't that bad? Weren't anniversaries and condolences the only reasons for flowers? They were, if her life experiences was anything to go by. So, either it was an anniversary she didn't remember or something bad had happened — though, as far as she knew, she wasn't sick nor injured.

Injured. That word came with unpleasant implications. Being injured could be in ways other than physical.

What the hell are you thinking, Sharon? Andy's cheating on you and he tells it with flowers? It was so laughable it was hard to keep quiet. Arranging the flowers in the tall crystal vase, she shook her head to clear the absurd thoughts.

It didn't take a detective to see she still looked more than little suspicious when she had returned with a vase and the flowers. Seeing her almost angry scowl and the quick shaking of her head, he was well on his way to cluelessville. What was wrong with buying flowers? Even if she didn't appreciate gifts, flowers had seemed like a safe option. After all, women and flowers, they kind of went together, didn't they? You were supposed to buy a woman flowers, right? Wasn't that the thing you learnt on your prom night at the latest?

Now that thought had landed, maybe it was the type of flowers she had an objection to. She liked white and pale colours, lilies and orchids, he had always assumed. Granted, these ones were neither, but no need to go... Whatever that was over it.

"You don't know what they mean, do you?" he enquired quietly, "Or is it that they are red carnations that's bothering you?"

Not shedding him even a fraction of a glance, she walked the vase to the furthest end of the dinner table and turned towards the open door for a few seconds to take in both the smell of the ever-going rain as well as the steady hum with which it filled the room.

"Isn't it always something about love with carnations?" she said almost as distractedly as she had greeted him earlier before turning to face him with a shrug. "Doesn't bother me, you've made your view on the issue clear enough in other ways."

"Good." Feeling the need to answer her, more than likely, rhetoric question, he laid out, "Red ones are deep love and affection. True for me, but I bought them more for their Medieval meaning. Happy, joyful, love."

"You know what carnations meant in Medieval times?"

He shrugged. "So do you now."

With disbelief she studied him before laughing melodiously and shaking her head.

"And you think I know too many things about too many things!"

He grinned and walked up to her, loosely wrapping his arms around her.

"You do. Luckily the things we know are about different things. We complete each other."

Her urge to blush was less to do with the memory of things he had accused her of knowing too much about in the past, the very explicit things, and more to do with a quick realisation of things he knew too many things about. Those foolishly sentimental things, of which she would have never guessed he knew anything.

A kiss was the perfect disguise behind which to hide the small shiver and the less than pride-infusing secret glance at the carnations.

He patted her lower back before pulling away completely.

"Come on, dinner awaits. I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry."

"Yeah? Luckily I have the means to feed myself."

She was enough of a lady to not point out that she had planned the menu, written him a shopping list, paid for the groceries and was about to cook him his dinner. That, and that he really was the type to die in front of a full fridge if not looked after. The man needed her, plain and simple, she thought wryly.

The man who bought her flowers without a reason. She again turned to look at the offending bouquet on the table with a frown.

"Could you explain me this?" he asked behind her back.

Hesitantly leaving the flowers alone, she checked what 'this' was. Now he was frowning at her, holding out the half-eaten apple like it was a stinky sock.

"It's an apple. You know, a fruit. Maybe you've heard of them, being a vegetarian and all?"

"You're so funny."

"Well, it was a stupid question, wasn't it?"

He walked to the trash cabinet.

"No!" She sprung forth to rescue the apple from his hands. "I'm still eating it."

Picking up the knife, she cut a thin wedge and sucking it between her lips, returned to her thoughts. Flowers, insane.

Immediately feeling his eyes trained on her, perhaps on her lips, she glanced at him. "What? A little browning never hurt anybody."

Raising his hands in mock surrender, he told her, "By all means."

When she was again knee-deep in thought, he concentrated on studying her. It happened to be a favourite past-time of his. Today she was even eating her apple differently. Yes, she was always thrifty, never throwing away usable things (what was he thinking trying to throw away half an apple!), so no surprise there. But normally, when at home and relaxed, she just bit into one. However, the first step was always the best. Using a straight knife, never a peeler, she gently but efficiently peeled the apple in one continuous motion, leaving the skin curl in one long twist. This wedge show she usually employed only when she didn't want her make-up to smudge, so mostly at work, or when she was preparing a snack for later. Habits, she had habits and they were all always more adorable than the last.

"What are you smiling for?" she interrupted his thoughts passing him to the bin.

"No reason, just because."

"You do a lot of things 'just because'."

"Seems so." The following 'especially when it comes to you' he swallowed, but the knowing squint directed at him teased out a silent question if, then again, he had accidentally said it aloud.


	4. Part 4

**Red Carnations**  
_Part 4/6_

There were errant thoughts that ruined your days. Even the ones with soothing rain making the scenery outside anew. Her errant thought had included the word 'injured'.

Did the flowers indicate a reason for her to feel injured? She very well couldn't come out and ask, especially if he was still trying to fob her off or if he was still in denial. Not to mention the ramifications of accusing him unnecessarily.

Suddenly it hit her. What if he didn't buy the flowers because of something he had done, but because of something he wanted her to do? Or something she had done? Had she been disrespectful and bitchy towards him? At work, accidentally?

Maybe she had said or done something at work that made him feel uncomfortable. Like if she had unconsciously brought their personal relationship up in a way that either detracted from their professional relationship or made him think this was not important.

Well, awesome job, if that was the case. Diminish him and make him apologize. If that wasn't a recipe for a successful relationship, nothing was.

Being exasperated with yourself was no use, she knew. Either he had done something or she had done or not done something. If there was any hope for laying the issue to rest, she had to investigate once and for all.

Looking at him eating his dinner with good appetite she grinned at him and he smirked in response. The love she felt for their quiet, comfortable dinners was vast. Sometimes they held hands without conscious thought and at a rapidly diminishing number of times she was startled by it. He was making her a sappy old fool.

She needed to take charge. He was a trained interviewer, he knew tricks to hide things he didn't want to say, but she was trained too, she knew when said tricks were used. Use of tricks was an unequivocal admission of deep guilt. She needed a strategy, she needed a plan.

Looking up, they made eye contact again and smiled. That was all the in she needed.

"Did you have a good day?"

He almost choked on his mouthful. "What?" In an effort to mask his appalling lapse in table manners, he took a sip of water and cleared his throat before apologizing for it, "Excuse me."

She waved off his need for apology.

When he went for another forkful without giving her and answer, she repeated, "So, did you?"

As if searching for someone else she might be talking to, he glanced around himself. "Are you asking me if I had a good day?"

"Yes. What is so surprising?"

"I — Sharon, you never have before," he pointed out warily, "And besides, you have been with me all through the day."

"Oh, alright, just forget it," she snapped testily and stabbed her dinner with the fork. This was never going to work, he was so infuriatingly contrary!

Placations on his mind, Andy was about to respond until he heard the snort and noticed she was already a million miles into fixating on the flowers standing tall at the other end of the table. Something was up with her. Like, something really something, not just a fleeting thought or a minor glitch in the grand scheme of things.

He called out her name. Twice, then for the third time, before getting an acknowledgement. It was only a hum, so he deemed a fourth time to be in order. To that she reacted, turned her eyes to meet his.

"What is it?"

Her manner hadn't softened much, he noticed. Tread carefully, man.

He kept the eye contact a lot longer than was needed to make sure she was focused and listening. Even when receiving the first hints of her getting uncomfortable, he dared himself to keep her eyes a fraction of a second longer, just a breath more. Feeling her anxiousness rise, he finally gave room for words.

"How was your day?" he asked levelly, like there was still more need for conveying his seriousness.

The widening of her eyes was followed by unexpectedly bowed head. He waited her to take contact again and when she did, she was smiling. Despite connecting with him, she was silent. The man was good, she had to give him that.

"So, how was it?" he prompted her again with the tiniest trace of a smile.

"It was fine," was her off-hand answer before her eyes flitted towards the ceiling in search of a better description. "Tough, tiring, nice, bewildering."

"Bewildering. That's something."

"It is," she affirmed.

Hidden behind the earnest appearance was the mischievous glint in his eye. There was no doubt he was thinking her silly. And she was, a silly goose through and through.

He was very good at pushing her and she loved that about him. He never did it unnecessarily: if he pushed her, he always wanted and waited for the result. Whatever it might be, good or bad. Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt, abandon all the murky swirls of past experiences and look at him, his actions, with new eyes. There was something to be said for vulnerability.

Lacing her fingers, she sighed deeply and leaned back in her seat. "You know, something strange happened. A very nice, an extremely wonderful, man bought me flowers."

"That's it? That warrants 'bewildering'?" Women, he was never going to understand them.

"It does. Frankly, I am a bit beside myself."

"Should I be jealous?"

She laughed at him, heartily. He loved hearing her laugh, it used to be a very rare treat indeed. That was good, seemed to loosen up something in her. He got her back with him, even if the carnations still wouldn't grant her eyes total rest. She offered giggling protestations to his further teases over guys who had looked twice at her recently. The 'Andy, stop it' she managed to strangle out together with the soft laying of her fingers on his forearm, followed by a sparkling smile, finally let him hope it was turning night as normal despite her odd preoccupations.

He liked to think he wasn't wrong as the dinner turned to loving banter with the rain's steadying rap against the windows for accompaniment.


	5. Part 5

**A/N: **_This scene is smut light.  
_

* * *

**Red Carnations**  
_Part 5/6_

Once, during an internal battle between lust and chivalrousness that rendered his brain slightly busy for self-censoring, he had asked what she usually wore to bed. She had testified against short satiny nighties, like the one she was wearing at that particular moment, but funnily, that was almost all she wore these days. On rare occasions she wore soft pajamas or cotton nightshirts that made him instantly think through his closets for t-shirts that would look good on her. He rarely got past the first three things he remembered.

As he laid there on her bed watching for her to come through the door like he did now, it often struck him: did she wear the short satiny things for him or for herself? He wanted to believe she did it for herself, but honestly, didn't really mind if that was something she had chosen to be comfortable doing just to please him. For please him, it did.

Occupied with his thoughts, he didn't register the moment she had appeared. The first clue he got was the knock her knuckles made against the jamb she was leaning on. Apparently she had been trying to make an entrance but he had missed it.

Now, she was not so much leaning on the jamb as she was posing against it. Her heels were both off the ground, one leg bent at the knee. Her fingers resting on the hem bunched it upwards, one hip was dropped and she was teasing her lower lip with a look that spelled trouble in red capitals, braille and six other languages. He noticed she hadn't washed her face — if anything, added more cherry lipstick. It wouldn't even have surprised him if she had spontaneously admitted to using a product on her hair.

"Seeing anything you like?" she breathed out and shrugged one shoulder to let the flimsy strap of her nighty fall down.

He was seeing plenty, but rather than jumping up in unrestrained desire, he took a second look. The gentle wind in her hair as well as the flowing of the satin on her body might have been figments of his imagination, but at that particular moment the distant hum of the still going rain and the blood in his ears were too much intertwined for in-depth analyses.

It seemed that for her his silence was either a hard affirmation or an ask for more. Her tongue came to wet the too red lips and she parted with the doorway. Each step she took, each gesture along the way, was thoughtfully and carefully executed for maximum effect. He let eye contact break only for the opportunity to check her ankles at work. That was a part of her he never appreciated while she wore shoes, but barefoot, there was nothing more enticing.

She walked all the way up to him and leaned in to first breathe, then ghost her lips against his before making them give her the kiss she really wanted.

Pulling back her eyes narrowed so finely he would have bet no one else could have noticed. He did, and it only made him more cautious of her efforts. She was expecting something. Testing him. And he had clearly failed the test but how, he wasn't sure.

Placing her hands on her hips she straightened and squinted down at his expectant face.

"Clearly you're seeing something you don't like," she let out measuredly, emphatically, accusingly.

He slid to sit up on the edge of the mattress still studying her.

"Yeah. The distance," he practically barked out, confusing even himself of the reason.

The confusion was reflected back in her strained smile.

"Good."

She made a production of sitting next to him, almost too close but not quite, an array of picture worth poses in between. A roll of one shoulder here to bring out her collar bones, a flicking of hair to reveal her neck there. The way she crossed her legs to rest across his shins and finishing it by flexing her toes up to create a delectable arc on her foot happened to be one gesture he had expressly told he liked her doing. When she crossed her wrists on his thigh to create an inviting cleavage, there was no doubt of the seriousness of her intentions.

Clearly she had learnt the gestures that caught his eye. It was the first time he made note of that, but maybe it was because usually she didn't use them all at once, one after another like running through a list.

"See, maybe you should be honest and come out with the things you don't like I can rectify?" she suggested slow and quietly straight into his ear. And suggestive it was, even more so, when she punctuated the question with the kind of hum that always travelled through his body first.

Remarkably, somewhere in him there was still a hair's breadth of self-control for him to realise that the heavy-handed seduction wasn't the norm. It was not his Sharon at all.

Alright, who was he kidding, he amended with a mental chuckle. Heavy-handed seductions were totally her style, but usually they came with wonderful self-aware sarcasticness. Now she was being too serious, too invested in it. As if she needed to put herself on display for him to take a bite.

His head turned to respond, but the moment his lips parted to form any kind of sound, she attacked. Her lips molded to his without hesitation, without any room for any opinion from him.

Kissing her felt like riding a roller coaster blind. She pulled him in, pushed him away. One minute she brushed his lips gently, the next she was out for blood. It was as if she suddenly didn't know what he liked or what mood she was in.

As nice as kissing her always was, this simply couldn't go on. She was surely driving him either to attack or to get off the mood — the latter of which in itself would be a feat of remarkable proportions. He had to pull away, to create some distance between them, even if it almost physically hurt him to see the question in her wide, darkened eyes.

Accusations were always a risky business, but in the gentlest form imaginable he had to make one.

"You are fishing for something. You've been doing it the whole evening."

Clearer than any words could have, the painted on look of getting caught by surprise told him he hit the nail on the head. Clearly he had been expected to reach the conclusion. Had he not thought her lovable as hell, he would have been tempted to call her sneaky as hell.

She tried to exercise her more than ample amounts of feminine charms by pushing closer — and dare he say it, wriggling her shoulders as she moved — to create a backdrop for the more than sultry question of, "Would you believe me if I told you I'm fishing for some good release?"

"Not in the least."

By some miracle he was made of stone. The control in his voice sounded foreign, but he was glad of it. He had stopped her approach with laying his palms on her upper arms. Without hesitation. The look he got for his trouble was either the most honest example of dumbfoundedness he'd ever seen from her or something really, really, dangerous. Everything stopped for a few long seconds of hoping he hadn't done something really stupid, while she continued to transmit a disbelieving stare.

Not a little anxiety inducing was the way she turned to face the wall, scooting to sit further on the bed. He barely dared to look at her, but was glad to note she was deep in thought and not offended, so he gave her time.

A long sigh marked the unceremonious flopping on her back she executed behind him nearly as graciously as the things she just had done to lure him. One secret he would take to his grave was the mental admission that she looked almost more alluring doing that, her hair spread wildly, her arms thrown out across the bed and over the edge making one wrist curve into a deliciously kissable shape. And if he looked over his shoulder, the extended toes of one foot, the bent knee of the other leg letting the nighty reveal more thigh than her earlier seduction attempts, didn't really hurt matters either. Nor did the arch of her chest, to tell the truth, he noted when leaning over on the arm he propped on the far side of her ribs.

She breathed in and out, once, deeply, as if running through options before meeting his eyes with an admission.

"Alright, I am fishing for the real reason why you bought me flowers. Just tell me. Please?"

That old thing still? Yeah, she didn't let go of things easily. Adding the word 'please' in the middle of slightly uneven breath he took as an important clue to the underlying issue.

"I told you. Just because."

He couldn't resist stroking her side presenting itself so invitingly to him. The little tensing of her muscles under his hand was more than enough to tell him it hadn't been the answer she was looking for, the one she would buy.

"No reason," he tried again, but immediately realised it didn't resolve anything any better. He needed a relatable explanation. "Crime of opportunity. Means as in money, opportunity as in flowers in the store." The smile he offered was encouraging before he leaned further over her to place a soft kiss on her slightly pouty lips. "Nobody ever taught you that one of the biggest motives for crimes is 'just because'?"

"It's not a crime," she chastised a little muffledly, and he thought he heard traces of petulance in her tone.

"You make it seem like one. Honestly, I'm at loss as to what you're expecting."

"I'm not expecting anything. I'm trying to find out what you're expecting."

"Not expecting anything either." Like it was some sort of a secret, he whispered, "Expectations kinda ruin the 'just because'."

She giggled and noted his eyes were as honest as they always were. Just maybe he was telling the truth. Just maybe it was a meaningless gesture.

A meaningless gesture he happened to know the subliminal message of, in two versions? Then again, he might have made it up as a joke, it had been known to happen. Perhaps, the suspicious part of her suggested, she should investigate when she was online next. The romantic part of her asked whether his making it up mattered, if he meant it. (And the schoolgirl in her added, 'of course he meant it'. Whether it was wishful thinking, too many romantic novels or catty teenager speaking, she wasn't bothered to discern.)

She didn't get too far in her inner debate before he had taken over the development of her earlier plan for seduction. He kept kissing her, touching her with fingers that moved as deftly and as demandingly as always. The sensations firing on her skin overrode any importance thinking of red carnations might have held before.

When his hands finally snaked under her nighty, it made her fight away from his kisses.

Laying a palm against his chest she shook her head. "Top."

He smirked at her breathy voice and rolled them over. "Go ahead."

Once he had joked about her preference to always come on top and she had replied with sly comments about women needing to look after themselves with lax men (the message behind which he knew to be a total joke, like she had admitted several times over since), but whether she really had a preference or why that was, was still a mystery to him. And probably it would remain so, if she was never taken by an attack of need for spontaneous honesty. She had her secrets and he would always let them be, even if privately he wondered. Not that he ever, ever, wanted to complain, whether he found out the reason for this or not, whatever it might be: it was again but another quirk of hers he appreciated.

His musings were interrupted by fleeting butterfly kisses and the tickling slide of her soft lips down his jaw as she prepared herself. How she made everything, even the aggressive stances, to look so sweet and loving, he couldn't begin to guess. Before her most of his experiences in similar situations were closer to bad erotica covers or soft-core porn. She had class and style, even in situations for which the top ten adjectives had nothing to do with dignity.

Even now her movements were graceful, her tiny smiles soft and girlish. The things she did to him he hoped, in vain, no girl ever did. As she glanced up at his hiss with a sarcastic smirk, he breathed out in unexpected relief. No more fishing: she was back to herself, ready to let him in. Insistently he ran his hands over her shoulders and she rose above him like the goddess that she was.

At the suddenly thundering echoes of the rainfall, he saw her eyes close and she hummed, the pleasure arching her back.

"I love the rain."

His left hand stroked her backside and he watched her stilled form.

"Yeah, I know."

She turned her head and her eyes appeared to meet his with starshine clarity. "I know that you know," she replied with lips sporting an affectionate smile. "I love that you know."

He repaid the smile in kind and pushed the wild strands of hair away from her face with the side of his hand and finished the gesture by stroking her cheek with two fingers. Returning her focus to her task, she smiled and mirrored his hand's movements on his chest.

He didn't like her focus drifting, so he only gave her a moment to get things going again before placing his fingers under her chin and coaxing her to connect back with him. Having her eyes in intimate moments had quickly become important to him. Eyes were probably the part of her she had the most trouble schooling to remain impassive or send false messages.

Previously she had shied away from his physical asks to give him her eyes. Slowly his insistence had started to feel natural to her. He had told her she couldn't lie with her eyes, which was another level of scary. However, she knew she didn't want to lie to him, couldn't, even with her otherwise masterful deceptions. He saw too much, he knew too much.

And she saw him, knew him. Now his eyes looked at her with the usual mixture of affection, wonder, even the faint trace of idolisation that still terrified her. Flowers or no flowers, there was absolutely no difference in the way he looked at her.

She tilted her head and guided his hand to cup her cheek. With a gentle hum and nuzzling against his palm, she let her eyes close, but only for a second knowing his preference.

"I love you like that," he whispered. As her eyes opened, he added, "I love you."

She stilled for a long moment and concentrated on only taking in his words, his voice, his expression; him.

With a shudder running through all the muscles of her body, she announced her surprisingly surprised conclusion for the night.

"You really do mean 'just because'."

Her answer might not have read like the most romantic to other men, but to him, it was at the top of the list titled 'things she should have said' for too many reasons too big to fit on a list of their own.


	6. Part 6

**Red Carnations**  
_Part 6/6_

The storm had passed, the continuous thrumming of rain eased. It had taken them over an hour to start getting ready for sleep again, since she had refused every attempt and suggestion he had made to get up while there was still something to listen to. Kindly he had pointed out that she could resume the listening to his breathing after a trip to the bathroom, after all she was lying there with her ear to his chest, but it had not gone down too well. No matter, he was having good enough time holding her warm, pliant body to his.

With some amount of disappointment she had finally said she could no longer hear the water dripping. The winds had changed and he kissed her forehead before making her get up and get ready for bed. The pause she made before exiting the room came it without faltering.

"Join me?"

He promised to do so, in a minute.

Honestly it turned out to be more like five or ten, and he might have dozed off with a stupid grin in that space. As a punishment he missed most of showering with her, and what could have been a moment of silent dancing together under the warm rain turned out to be more reminiscent of shift change procedures.

Finally leaving him to brushing his teeth (she had mocked him for she had clearly tasted the toothpaste earlier — he only had to remind her what had been in his mouth since then to get her to shut up), she made a detour to the kitchen and the den. The dinner's left-overs had cooled and she placed them in the fridge before switching off the remaining undercabinet lights on her way to close the patio doors.

He came out to a view that made him smile. It was her, back in that short red satin nightgown he secretly — or so he thought — adored, gently playing with the petals of just as red carnations with her fingers. The sparkling smile she sported forced him to stop to lean against the wall to spy on her. That was an immense improvement over the reaction the very same flowers had on her in the beginning.

All too soon she giggled in her throat, turned around with that too alluring smile that, as soon as she spotted him, turned sheepish. She smoothed the hem of her nightie and crossed her arms, averting her eyes from him.

"What were you thinking?" he asked with a grin of his own.

"Nothing," she avoided before conceding, "Rain. Carnations. You."

If it was possible, his grin widened even more. They both knew she had just listed three things she loved without the words to explain why.

"You always think of me with a smile like that?"

She tried for haughtiness, but the tentativeness showed in the way she met his eyes and then raised hers that tiny bit more.

"Yes."

"Well, should buy you flowers more often."

She looked away.

"Maybe."

Trying to keep his (adoring) laugh at bay, he approached her.

"Swear I've never known a woman with this reaction to a simple bunch of grocery store flowers." Coming to stand a mere inches in front of her, he leant to kiss the corner of her lips. "Makes me want to buy you an arms full of red roses."

"I can't promise the response you would get would turn out to be any better."

"By 'better' do you mean more blushing schoolgirl or more collected?"

"I don't know," she admitted meekly. "Either?"

She really fluctuated from beside herself to herself and back again. Flowers were a powerful thing, he began to see in the past few hours. Granted, she had admitted this was a thing and he had chosen not to pester her about it, but she wasn't snapping back. She couldn't be like this every single time she got flowers.

"You don't get many flowers."

The present tense seemed more harmless than the accusing tone of any past tense would have felt. Whether she would comment or not was totally up to her now, he was fine with either. If he were smarter, he wouldn't have said anything in the first place. She should know that he was always happy to listen if she wanted to talk.

"Never." Well, that was a lie. She did get flowers, sometimes, rarely, but always for good reasons. That was the difference here. Could there really be such a thing as a 'no reason' bunch of flowers? "Never 'just because'," she amended.

"Well, to err on the side of too much honesty, since you look for hidden reasons, I must confess, I might have had one."

The last traces of her smile faded. "Oh." No, there clearly couldn't be 'no reason' flowers.

"Yeah." He took her in his arms, to console her, it appeared since she didn't make a move to reciprocate. "I'm sorry, but it's that old pesky one. I'm practically a cliche."

The hollow laugh he offered made her eyes close. She considered asking him not to tell her now as his arms moved to better envelop her in his embrace and she pushed closer in to his warm body to rest in the crook of his shoulder. He started to lead her in slow shuffling valse to the only music available: the sound of the last drops of rain dripping on the patio through the doors she never got to close.

After a while, he continued like there hadn't been any pause at all, "Happened to be ridiculously happy thinking of how much I love you when passing the flower stand. I apologize, but just had to buy you some." The fingers of his hand — which one she wasn't sure since it felt like she was still firmly wrapped to him — traced against her neck to draw away her hair. She felt too melted to shiver, even when he rumbled, "Good enough a reason for me to be forgiven?"

She hummed, her lips curving into a contended smile. "That is a very good reason. However, I might be biased in my assessment since I happen to love you madly and will always forgive you regardless."

"Even with 'just because'?"

She didn't know if he was asking whether she would forgive him for 'just because' or if she loved him madly despite 'just because', but it didn't matter. The answer would always be the same.

"Especially for 'just because'."

* * *

**A/N:** _Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! And special thanks for every wonderful comment & add! _

_Prompts for this challenge round: rain, flowers, thinking, red + word prompts: strap, sweet, knife, goose, just x30. Have no recollection which word prompts, if any, I used for the original snippet. I admit it, I do love my prompts and challenges. :) Best way to get me writing anything is to say 'hey, write a story with/about X'. I just can't NOT write it... *eye roll*_


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